ECHOES OF A SPICY BOOK ON SCOTLAND.
EDINBURGH, _August 26, 1902_.
[Sidenote: Unique Prayer for Prince Charlie.]
The mention of St. Cuthbert's, where we heard an excellent coronation
sermon by Dr. McGregor, reminds me of the prayer offered in St.
Cuthbert's by the Rev. Neill McVicar, in 1745, just after the Young
Pretender had won the battle of Prestonpans. A message was sent to the
Edinburgh ministers, in the name of "Charles Prince Regent," desiring
them to open their churches next day as usual. McVicar preached to a
large congregation, many of whom were armed Highlanders, and prayed
for George II., the reigning monarch, and also for Charles Edward, the
Young Pretender, in the following terms, "Bless the king! Thou knowest
what king I mean. May the crown sit long upon his head! As for that
young man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech
thee to take him to thyself, and give him a crown of glory!"
One of our pleasant excursions, of which we have made many since
coming to Edinburgh, was to the field of Prestonpans, where the Young
Pretender won his delusive victory, a field made familiar to many by
the vivid description in _Waverley_. An aged tree, now supported and
braced by iron rods and wires, is pointed out as that under which the
Pretender stood during part of the engagement. Under this tree, in the
tall wheat, overlooking the peaceful fields and the shining sea, our
photographers insisted that a picture should be taken of some of the
party, weary and dusty, and I fear untidy as we were. Half a mile
away, and within a few feet of the railway, stands the monument to Col.
Gardiner, who was killed in this battle, and of whom Scott gives such a
striking account in the first of his immortal romances.
[Sidenote: Church-going in Edinburgh.]
But there I go again, instead of finishing the subject of church
services. In Kate Douglas Wiggin's sparkling volume, entitled
_Penelope's Progress_, there is an amusing description of the
perplexity of a young woman from America, on noticing from her
window the great crowds of people on the streets of Edinburgh on
Sunday morning, her speculations as to the cause--"Do you suppose
it is a fire?"--and her amazement at discovering that they were all
going to church. And truly the Scotch people are great church-goers.
Nothing like it is ever seen on our side of the ocean, except in the
predominantly Scotch cities of Canada.
"I have never seen such attention, such concentration, as in these
great congregations of the Edinburgh churches. As nearly as I can
judge, it is intellectual rather than emotional; but it is not a
tribute paid to eloquence alone, it is habitual and universal, and is
yielded loyally to insufferable dullness when occasion demands.
[Sidenote: The Bibles.]
"When the text is announced, there is an indescribable rhythmic
movement forward, followed by a concerted rustle of Bible leaves; not
the rustle of a few Bibles in a few pious pews, but the rustle of all
of them in all the pews--and there are more Bibles in an Edinburgh
Presbyterian Church than one ever sees anywhere else, unless it be in
the warehouses of the Bible Societies.
[Illustration: DRILL OF HIGHLANDERS, EDINBURGH CASTLE.]
"The text is read twice clearly, and another rhythmical movement
follows, when the books are replaced on the shelves. Then there is a
delightful settling back of the entire congregation, a snuggling
comfortably into corners, and a fitting of shoulders to the pews--not
to sleep, however; an older generation may have done that under the
strain of a two-hour 'wearifu' dreich' sermon, but these church-goers
are not to be caught napping. They wear, on the contrary, a keen,
expectant, critical look, which must be inexpressibly encouraging to
the minister, if he has anything to say. If he has not (and this is a
possibility in Edinburgh, as it is everywhere else), then I am sure it
is wisdom for the beadle to lock him in (the pulpit) lest he flee when
he meets those searching eyes.
[Sidenote: The Sermon.]
"The Edinburgh sermon, though doubtless softened in outline in these
later years, is still a more carefully built discourse than one
ordinarily hears outside of Scotland, being constructed on conventional
lines of doctrine, exposition, logical inference, and practical
application. Though modern preachers do not announce the division of
their subject into heads and subheads, firstlies and secondlies and
finallies my brethren, there seems to be the old framework underneath
the sermon, and every one recognizes it as moving silently below the
surface; at least, I always fancy that as the minister finishes one
point and attacks another the younger folk fix their eagle eyes on him
afresh, and the whole congregation sits up straighter and listens more
intently, as if making mental notes. They do not listen so much as
if they were enthralled, though they often are, and have good reason
to be, but as if they were to pass an examination on the subject
afterwards; and I have no doubt that this is the fact.
[Sidenote: The Prayers.]
"The prayers are many, and are divided, apparently, like those of the
liturgies, into petitions, confessions, and aspirations, not forgetting
the all-embracing one with which we are perfectly familiar in our
native land, in which the preacher commends to the Fatherly care every
animate and inanimate thing not mentioned specifically in the foregoing
supplications. It was in the middle of this compendious petition, 'the
lang prayer,' that rheumatic old Scotch dames used to make a practice
of 'cheengin' the fit,' as they stood devoutly through it. 'When the
meenister comes to the "ingatherin' o' the Gentiles," I ken weel it's
time to change legs, for then the prayer is jist half dune,' said a
good sermon-taster of Fife.
[Sidenote: The Music.]
"The organ is finding its way rapidly into the Scottish kirks (how can
the shade of John Knox endure a 'kist o' whistles' in good St. Giles?),
but it is not used yet in some of those we attend most frequently.
There is a certain quaint solemnity, a beautiful austerity, in the
unaccompanied singing of hymns, that touches me profoundly. I am often
carried very high on the waves of splendid church music, when the
organ's thunder rolls 'through vaulted aisles,' and the angelic voices
of a trained choir chant the aspirations of my soul for me; but when an
Edinburgh congregation stands, and the precentor leads in that noble
paraphrase--
"God of our fathers, be the God
Of their succeeding race,"
there is a certain ascetic fervor in it that seems to me the perfection
of worship. It may be that my Puritan ancestors are mainly responsible
for this feeling, or perhaps my recently adopted Jenny Geddes is
a factor in it; of course, if she were in the habit of flinging
fauldstules at Deans, she was probably the friend of truth and the foe
of beauty, so far as it was in her power to separate them."
[Sidenote: Jenny Geddes and her Stool.]
Ah! yes. Jenny Geddes. Of course, we made a point of attending service
frequently in St. Giles, where that redoubtable assailant of "the
papists and their apists" hurled her memorable missile. I trust the
story is well known to many of my readers, especially our young people,
but perhaps all are not familiar with the extremely racy version of it
written by the late Professor Stuart Blackie, one of the most brilliant
and versatile men of the age, and given to me by a kinswoman of his,
whose charming hospitality I once had the privilege of enjoying for two
weeks; so I will embody that version of it in my letter.
THE SONG OF MISTRESS JENNY GEDDES.
_Tune_: "_The British Grenadiers_."
Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess,
And some the wise Aspasia beloved by Pericles;
But o'er all the world's brave women, there's one that bears the
rule,
The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the three-legged stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, at them now--
Jenny, fling the stool!
'Twas the 23rd of July in the 1637,
On Sabbath morn, from high St. Giles the solemn peal was given;
King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed
rule,
He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, yes I trow,
There's danger in a stool.
The Council and the Judges, with ermined pomp elate,
The Provost and the Bailies, in gold and crimson state,
Fair silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the School,
Were there to please the king and learn the virtue of a stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, yes I trow,
There's virtue in a stool.
The Bishop and the Dean cam' in, wi' mickle gravity,
Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e'e,
Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big like seals in briny pool,
They bare a book, but little thought they soon would feel a stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, yes I trow,
They'll feel a three-legged stool.
The Dean, he to the Altar went, and with a solemn look,
He cast his eyes to heaven and read the curious printed book;
In Jenny's heart the blood upwelled, with bitter anguish full,
Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, at them now--
Firmly grasp the stool!
As when a mountain wildcat springs on a rabbit small,
So Jenny on the Dean springs with gush of holy gall--
"Wilt thou say mass at my lug, ye popish-puling fool?
Ho! no!" she said, and at his head she flung the three-legged stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, at them now--
Jenny, fling the stool!
A bump! a thump! a smash! a crash! Now, gentlefolks beware!
Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling thro' the air,
With "Well done, Jenny! Bravo, Jenny! That's the proper tool!
When the Deil will out and shows his snout, just meet him with a
stool."
CHORUS: With a row dow, at them now--
There's nothing like a stool.
The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear,
The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,
The Bishop and the Dean went in sorrow and in dool,
And all the popish flummery fled when Jenny showed the stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, at them now--
Jenny, fling the stool!
And thus a radiant deed was done by Jenny's valiant hand,
Black prelacy and popery she drove from Scottish land,
King Charles, he was a shuffling knave, Priest Laud a meddling fool,
But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool.
CHORUS: With a row dow, yes I trow,
She beat them with a stool.
[Sidenote: The Disruption in 1843.]
Of course, too, we visited St. Andrew's Church, in the newer part of
the city, on the other side of the great, picturesque ravine which
divides the old town from the new, because it was the scene of another
epoch-making event in the ecclesiastical history of Scotland, viz.,
the Disruption of 1843. Unable to abolish the patronage of livings,
by which certain heritors or patrons could appoint any minister they
wished to a vacant pastorate, without the consent of the congregation,
Dr. Chalmers and his party decided to take a very bold step in order
to preserve the freedom of the church. When the Assembly met in St.
Andrew's Church, in the presence of a great body of spectators, while a
vast throng outside awaited the result with almost breathless interest,
though not really believing that any large number of the ministers
would relinquish their homes and salaries for the sake of a "fantastic
principle," all expectations were surpassed when the Moderator, after
reading a formal protest signed by one hundred and twenty ministers
and seventy-two elders, left his place, and was followed first by Dr.
Chalmers, and then by four hundred and seventy men, who marched in a
body to Tanfield Hall, and there organized the General Assembly of
the Free Church of Scotland. When Lord Jeffrey was told of it an hour
later, he exclaimed, "Thank God for Scotland! There is not another
country on earth where such a deed could be done!" Well might the
Scottish minister remind his American visitor of Lord Macaulay's remark
that the Scots had made sacrifices for the sake of religious opinion
for which there was no parallel in the annals of England. Many of my
readers are familiar with the exceedingly impressive appearance of this
Disruption Assembly, from the well-known engraving, a copy of which
hangs in the Reading Room of the Spence Library, at Union Theological
Seminary, Richmond.
[Sidenote: A Sermon-taster with a Nippy Tongue.]
It would never do, when speaking of church matters in Edinburgh, to
omit Penelope's account of her landlady's breezy comments on the
different preachers.
"It is to Mrs. McCollop that we owe our chief insight into technical
church matters, although we seldom agree with her 'opeenions' after
we gain our own experience. She never misses hearing one sermon on
a Sabbath, and oftener she listens to two or three. Neither does
she confine herself to the ministrations of a single preacher, but
roves from one sanctuary to another, seeking the bread of life,
often, however, according to her own account, getting a particularly
indigestible 'stane.'
"She is thus a complete guide to the Edinburgh pulpit, and when she is
making a bed in the morning she dispenses criticism in so large and
impartial a manner that it would make the flesh of the 'meenistry'
creep were it overheard. I used to think Ian Maclaren's sermon-taster
a possible exaggeration of an existent type, but I now see that she is
truth itself.
"'Ye'll be tryin' anither kirk the morn?' suggested Mrs. McCollop,
spreading the clean Sunday sheet over the mattress. 'Wha did he hear
the Sawbath that's bye? Dr. A.? Ay, I ken him ower weel; he's been
there for fifteen years and mair. Ay, he's a gifted mon--_off an' on!'_
with an emphasis showing clearly that in her estimation the times
when he is 'off' outnumber those when he is 'on.' ... 'Ye have na heard
auld Dr. B. yet?' (Here she tucks in the upper sheet tidily at the
foot.) 'He's a graund strachtforrit mon, is Dr. B., forbye he's growin'
maist awfu' dreich in his sermons, though when he's that wearisome
a body canna heed him withoot takin' peppermints to the kirk, he's
nane the less, at seventy-sax, a better mon than the new asseestant.
Div ye ken the new asseestant? He's a wee bit finger-fed mannie, ower
sma' maist to wear a goon! I canna thole him, wi' his lang-nebbit
words, explainin' and expoundin' the gude Book as if it had jist come
oot! The auld doctor's nae kirk-filler, but he gi'es us fu' measure,
pressed down an' rinnin' over, nae bit pickin's like the haverin'
asseestant; it's my opeenion he's no sound, wi' his parleyvoos and his
clishmaclavers!... Mr. C.?' (Now comes the shaking and straightening
and smoothing of the first blanket.) 'Ay, he's weel eneuch! I mind
ance he prayed for our Free Assembly, an' then he turned roun' an'
prayed for the Established, maist in the same breath--he's a broad,
leeberal mon, is Mr. C.!... Mr. D.? Ay, I ken him fine; he micht be
waur, though he's ower fond o' the kittle pairts o' the Old Testament;
but he reads his sermon from the paper, an' it's an auld sayin', If
a meenister canna mind [remember] his ain discoors, nae mair can the
congregation be expectit to mind it.... Mr. E.? He's my ain meenister.'
(She has a pillow in her mouth now, but though she is shaking it as a
terrier would a rat, and drawing on the linen slip at the same time,
she is still intelligible between the jerks.) 'Susanna says his sermon
is like claith made o' soond 'oo [wool] wi' a' gude twined thread,
an' wairpit an' weftit wi' doctrine. Susanna kens her Bible weel, but
she's never gaed forrit.' (To 'gang forrit' is to take the communion.)
'Dr. F.? I ca' him the greetin' doctor. He's aye dingin' the dust oot
o' the poopit cushions, an' greetin' ower the sins o' the human race,
an' eespecial'y of his ain congregation. He's waur syne his last wife
sickened an' slippit awa'. 'T was a chastenin' he'd put up wi' twice
afore, but he grat nane the less. She was a bonnie bit body, was the
third Mistress F.! E'nbro could 'a' better spared the greetin' doctor
than her, I'm thinkin'.
'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away according to his good will
and pleasure,' I ventured piously, as Mrs. McCollop beat the bolster
and laid it in place.
'Ou ay,' responded that good woman, as she spread the counterpane over
the pillows in the way I particularly dislike; 'ou ay, but whiles I
think it's a peety he couldna be guidit!'"
[Sidenote: Scottish and American Repartee.]
Finally, I cannot refrain from quoting Francesca's account of the
peppery conversation she had with the young Scottish minister with whom
she was destined to fall in love. She returned from the dinner, at
which she had met him, all out of sorts:
"How did you get on with your delightful minister?" inquired
Salemina.... "He was quite the handsomest man in the room; who is he?"
"He is the Reverend Ronald Macdonald, and the most disagreeable,
condescending, ill-tempered prig I ever met!"
"Why, Francesca!" I exclaimed. "Lady Baird speaks of him as her
favorite nephew, and says he is full of charm."
"He is just as full of charm as he was when I met him," returned the
girl nonchalantly; "that is, he parted with none of it this evening. He
was incorrigibly stiff and rude, and oh! so Scotch! I believe if one
punctured him with a hat pin, oatmeal would fly into the air!"
"Doubtless you acquainted him, early in the evening, with the
immeasurable advantages of our sleeping-car system, the superiority of
our fast-running elevators, and the height of our buildings?" observed
Salemina.
"I mentioned them," Francesca answered evasively.
"You naturally inveighed against the Scotch climate?"
"Oh! I alluded to it; but only when he had said that our hot summers
must be insufferable."
"I suppose you repeated the remark you made at luncheon, that the
ladies you had seen in Princes Street were excessively plain?"
"Yes, I did," she replied hotly; "but that was because he said that
American girls generally looked bloodless and frail. He asked if it
were really true that they ate chalk and slate pencils. Was'n't that
unendurable? I answered that those were the chief solid articles of
food, but that after their complexions were established, so to speak,
their parents often allowed them pickles and native claret to vary the
diet."
"What did he say to that?" I asked.
"'Oh!' he said, 'quite so, quite so'; that was his invariable response
to all my witticisms. Then, when I told him casually that the shops
looked very small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not as
many tartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he remarked,
that as to the latter point, the American season had not opened yet!
Presently, he asserted that no royal city in Europe could boast ten
centuries of such glorious and stirring history as Edinburgh. I said
it did not appear to be stirring much at present, and that everything
in Scotland seemed a little slow to an American; that he could have no
idea of push or enterprise until he visited a city like Chicago. He
retorted that, happily, Edinburgh was peculiarly free from the taint of
the ledger and the counting-house; that it was Weimar without a Goethe,
Boston without its twang!"
"Incredible!" cried Salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride. "He
never could have said 'twang' unless you had tried him beyond measure!"
"I dare say I did; he is easily tried," returned Francesca. "I asked
him, sarcastically, if he had ever been in Boston. 'No,' he said,
'it is not necessary to go there! And while we are discussing these
matters,' he went on, 'how is your American dyspepsia these days--have
you decided what is the cause of it?'"
"'Yes, we have,' said I, as quick as a flash; 'we have always taken in
more foreigners than we could assimilate!' I wanted to tell him that
one Scotsman of his type would upset the national digestion anywhere,
but I restrained myself."
"I am glad you did restrain yourself--once," exclaimed Salemina.
And so on, with Francesca's characterization of the Forth Bridge as the
national idol, her inability to tell which way to turn a drawing of it
so as to make the bridge right side up, his asking her if doughnuts
resembled peanuts, and his telling her he had heard that the ministers'
salaries in America were sometimes paid in pork and potatoes, his
comments on international marriages, and her conclusion, as she retired
that night, "I doubt if I can sleep for thinking what a pity it is that
such an egotistic, bumptious, pugnacious, prejudiced, insular, bigoted
person should be so handsome!"
That is an excellent little volume to give one an idea of the kind
of international clashes that are continually occurring in Edinburgh
nowadays. But we, being more intent upon getting into the more ancient
atmosphere of Scotland, give most of our evenings to the reading aloud,
in the family circle, of _Rob Roy_, and the like, in preparation for
our proposed tour of the Highlands, while the older members of the
party acquaint themselves afresh with the _Heart of Midlothian_, _The
Monastery_, _The Abbot_, and the other works of the Wizard of the
North, whose scenes are laid at or near "Edina, Scotia's darling seat."